One said, Do not listen. He stands accused of meddling.

One said, And morticide.

One said, And pride. And living with intent to survive.

One said, And fighting with chaos against good order.

Azrael raised an eyebrow.

The servants drifted away from Death, expectantly.

LORD, WE KNOW THERE IS NO GOOD ORDER EXCEPT THAT WHICH WE CREATE...

Azrael's expression did not change.

THERE IS NO HOPE BUT US. THERE IS NO MERCY BUT US. THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST US.

The dark, sad face filled the sky.

ALL THINGS THAT ARE, ARE OURS. BUT WE MUST CARE. FOR IF WE DO NOT CARE, WE DO NOT EXIST. IF WE DO NOT EXIST, THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT BLIND OBLIVION. AND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOME DAY. LORD, WILL YOU GRANT ME JUST A LITTLE TIME? FOR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS. TO RETURN WHAT WAS GIVEN. FOR THE SAKE OF PRISONERS AND THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS.

Death took a step backwards.

It was impossible to read expression in Azrael's features.

Death glanced sideways at the servants.

LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?

He waited.

LORD? said Death.

In the time it took to answer, several galaxies unfolded, whirled around Azrael like paper streamers, impacted, and were gone.

Then Azrael said:

T

1

l~ ~C) I

And another finger reached out across the darkness towards the Clock.

There were faint screams of rage from the servants, and then screams of realisation, and then three brief, blue flames.

All other clocks, even the handless clock of Death, were reflections of the Clock. Exactly reflections of the Clock; they told the universe what the time was, but the Clock told Time what time is. It was the mainspring from which all time poured.

And the design d the Clock was this: that the biggest hand only went around once.

The second hand whirred along a circular path that even light would take days to travel, forever chased by the minutes, hours, days, months, years, centuries and ages.

But the Universe hand went around once.

At least, until someone wound up the clockwork.

And Death returned home with a handful of Time.

A shop bell jangled.

Druto Pole, florist, looked over a spray of floribunda Mrs. Shooer. Someone was standing among the vases of flowers. They looked slightly indistinct; in fact, even afterwards, Druto was never sure who had been in his shop and how his words had actually sounded.

He oiled forward, rubbing his hands.

"How may I hel -"

FLOWERS.

Druto hesitated only for a moment.

"And the, er, destination for these -"

A LADY.

"And do you have any pref -"

LILIES.

"Ah? Are you sure that lilies are -?"

I LIKE LILIES.

"Um... it's just that lilies are a little bit sombre -"

I LIKE SOMB -

The figure hesitated.

WHAT DO YOU RECOMMEND?

Druto slipped smoothly into gear. "Roses are always very well received," he said. ‘Or orchids. Many gentlemen these days tell me that ladies find a single specimen orchid more acceptable than a bunch of roses -"

GIVE ME LOTS.

"Would that be orchids or roses?"

BOTH.

Druto's fingers twined sinuously, like eels in grease.

"And I wonder if I could interest you in these marvellous sprays of Neroousa GIoriosa -"

LOTS OF THEM.

"And if Sir's budget would stretch, may I suggest a single specimen of the extremely rare -"

YES.

"And possibly -"

YES. EVERYTHING. WITH A RIBBON.

When the shop bell had jangled the purchaser out, Druto looked at the coins in his hand. Many of them were corroded, all of them were strange, and one or two were golden.

"Um," he said. ‘That will do nicely..."

He became aware of a soft pattering sound.

Around him, all over the shop, petals were falling like rain.

AND THESE?

"That's our De Luxe assortment," said the lady in the chocolate shop. It was such a highclass establishment that it sold, not sweets, but confectionery - often in the form of individual gold-wrapped swirly things that made even larger holes in a bank balance than they did in a tooth.

The tall dark customer picked up a box that was about two feet square. On a lid like a satin cushion it had a picture of a couple of hopelessly cross-eyed kittens looking out of a boot.

WHAT FOR IS THIS BOX PADDED? IS IT TO BE SAT ON? CAN IT BE THAT IT IS CAT-FLAVOURED? he added, his tone taking on a definite menace, or rather more menace than it had already.

"Um, no. That's our Supreme Assortment."

The customer tossed it aside.

No.

The shopkeeper looked both ways and then pulled open a drawer under the counter, at the same time lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Of course," she said, "for that very special occasion..."

It was quite a small box. It was also entirely black, except for the name of the contents in small white letters; cats, even in pink ribbons, wouldn't be allowed within a mile of a box like this. To deliver a box of chocolates like this, dark strangers drop from chairlifts and abseil down buildings.

The dark stranger peered at the lettering.

"DARK ENCHANTMENTS," he said. I LIKE IT.

"For those intimate moments," said the lady.

The customer appeared to consider the relevance of this.

YES. THAT SEEMS APPROPRIATE.

The shopkeeper beamed.

"Shall I wrap them up, then?"

YES. WITH A RIBBON.

"And will there be anything else, sir?"

The customer seemed to panic.

ELSE? SHOULD THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE? IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE? WHAT IS IT THAT SHOULD BE DONE?

"I'm sorry, sir?"

A PRESENT FOR A LADY.

The shopkeeper was left a little adrift by this sudden turning of the tide of conversation. She swam towards a reliable cliche.

"Well, they do say, don't they, that diamonds are a girl's best friend?" she said brightly.

DIAMONDS? OH. DIAMONDS. IS THAT SO?

They glittered like bits of starlight on a black velvet sky.

"This one. " said the merchant, "is a particularly excellent stone, don't you think? Note the fire, the exceptional -"

HOW FRIENDLY IS IT?

The merchant hesitated. He knew about carats, about adamantine lustre, about "water" and "make" and "fire", but he'd never before been called upon to judge gems in terms of general affability.

"Quite well-disposed?" he hazarded.

NO.

The merchant's fingers seized on another splinter of frozen light.

"Now this," he said, confidence flowing back into his voice, "is from the famous Shortshanks mine. May I draw your attention to the exquisite -"

He felt the penetrating stare drill through the back of his head.

"But not, I must admit, noted for its friendliness," he said lamely.

The dark customer looked disapprovingly around the shop. In the gloom, behind troll-proof bars, gems glowed like the eyes of dragons in the back of a cave.

ARE ANY OF THESE FRIENDLY? he said.

"Sir, I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that we have never based our purchasing policy on the amiability of the stones in question," said the merchant. He was uncomfortably aware that things were wrong, and that somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what was wrong with them, and that somehow his mind was not letting him make that final link. And it was getting on his nerves.

WHERE IS THE BIGGEST DIAMOND IN THE WORLD?

"The biggest? That's easy. It's the Tear of Offler, it's in the innermost sanctuary of the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God in darkest Howandaland, and it weighs eight hundred and fifty carats. And, sir, to forestall your next question, I personally would go to bed with it."